Realists
by Tyranusfan
Summary: A realist knows that sometimes you have to get your hands dirty if you're going to built something better. Alexander Pierce is a realist. (Part 6 in my Search for Bucky Barnes series.) Rated T to be safe.


**Realists**

"_Our enemies are your enemies, Nick. Disorder. War. It's only a matter of time before a dirty bomb goes off in Moscow or an EMP fries Chicago..."_

-Alexander Pierce to Nick Fury

**WS WS WS WS WS WS**

_Kronas Oil Corporate Headquarters_

_Kiev, Ukraine_

_June 13, 2002_

"Please enter, Mr. Pierce."

Alexander Pierce nodded politely to the relatively young Russian executive who ushered him into the CEO's opulently decorated office. The space was quite large, with a comfortable seating area near the entrance, a well-stocked bar along the east wall, and a long wooden conference table complete with video monitors for teleconferencing. All framed against a heavy oak desk in front of a wide glass wall that overlooked the city skyline. _Business is booming_...

A silver haired man stood at the edge of the desk, wearing a gray well-tailored Italian suit much like Pierce's own. He extended a hand as Pierce got close. "Welcome to Ukraine, Secretary Pierce."

"Thank you for having me, Mr. Lukin."

Lukin glanced at Pierce's escort, nodding toward the door. "Thank you, Vladimir. That will be all for now."

"What's it been, Aleksander? Nine, ten years?" Pierce asked, with intentional over-familiarity. He seated himself in one of Lukin's more comfortable chairs, appearing every bit the arrogant American politician. "Ever since we sat across the table from each other and tried to pry Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait."

"You have a good memory, Mr. Pierce," Lukin replied, sounding faintly annoyed as he walked toward the bar. "Might I offer you a drink?"

"You're too generous." Pierce said, watching as Lukin's assistants cleared the room and closed the doors. Lukin returned with two glasses of vodka. They toasted silently, then Lukin sat on a long sofa opposite him.

Pierce sat forward, placing his glass on the table between them. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a gold-plated fountain pen, placing it beside his glass. "You're looking well. I wasn't sure how post-KGB life would be treating you."

"Private life is less stressful, to be certain," Lukin replied. "Though, your information is outdated. The KGB hasn't existed for almost a decade. I retired from the FSB eight years ago."

Pierce smirked. "The vodka's the same, no matter what bottle you pour it into."

His pen emitted a soft _beep_, and a flashing blue light appeared at the end of the cap. It sent out a signal that would flood the room's surveillance microphones with white noise and generated a looping effect of the last few moments, which the security cameras would record over and over. Two old friends, talking and drinking together.

Pierce nodded more formally. "Hail HYDRA."

Lukin's posture softened, relaxing somewhat. "Hail HYDRA, Comrade Pierce."

Pierce smiled faintly at the old form of address. Lukin had been his counterpart in the KGB for decades. They'd both risen to the top of their respective HYDRA cells around the same time. "Still bugging your own office, Aleksander? I see Soviet paranoia is still going strong."

"How do you Americans put it?" Lukin asked, taking a drink. "'Old habits die hard?'"

"Hm. So do old grudges."

Lukin frowned. "The New York attack took us by surprise as well. But, the American military seems to be doing well in Afghanistan. It is unfortunate that your appointment to the World Security Council came at such a...chaotic time."

"Chaos has its uses," Pierce retorted. "But it's the source that troubles me. The Taliban, Al-Qaeda...they don't answer to HYDRA, and it's only a matter of time before the Ten Rings gets involved. If we're serious about the new order, we need to start paving the way, now. Chaos and fear play to the masses, always has, but move too fast and it can be galvanized into patriotic fervor. That was Hitler's and Schmidt's mistake, and I don't intend to repeat it."

Lukin smiled. "So, the rumors are true. You _have_ met Zola."

"The benefits of access. I found the bunker. I _should_ have known about it years ago." Pierce replied coldly.

He'd discovered Arnim Zola's existence—as it was—by accident, while reviewing funding for S.H.I.E.L..D.'s deep shadow projects. The fact that he—_it_—had been supplying HYDRA with information, analysis and guidance for decades had taken Pierce by surprise. He'd been kept completely in the dark.

"We weren't certain how you would react." Lukin said, staring into his glass.

Pierce arched an eyebrow. "Forty years of service to the cause, and now you question my loyalty?"

Lukin sighed softly, and almost looked remorseful. "Some of us...question your relationship with Nick Fury. He is hardly an ally to our cause."

Pierce narrowed his eyes. "Nick is a friend. Do you share your political beliefs with all of _your_ friends? Without Nick's influence I never would have been offered this seat on the Council. His friendship can be beneficial, despite our differences. Just like _our_ relationship has been beneficial, despite _our_ differences."

The truth was, ever since the fall of the Soviet Union and its empire in 1991, the American and Russian sects of HYDRA had been growing apart. Lukin's organization had been struggling to regain, and maintain, its influence over the post-Soviet bloc, and all but drowning in the sea of chaotic changes that had afflicted the stumbling superpower. All the while, Pierce had been building a road to the future from his seat in Washington. A gap had formed between their groups, and the once united heads of HYDRA were falling further and further apart. Pierce was there to put things back on course.

"Is that why you've come all this way?" Lukin asked. "To discuss Dr. Zola's vision for the future?"

It was hard to tell if the tone was sarcastic or just disinterested. Either way, Pierce wasn't enjoying their verbal chess game. He stood and moved casually toward the huge bank of floor-to-ceiling windows behind Lukin's desk.

"No. I know how the game works, Aleksander. HYDRA has managed to stay in the shadows this long, and we still have a long way to go. My concerns are with the external threat. Al-Qaeda's infrastructure is almost as complex as ours. The U.S. and its allies can handle the military side of things in the Middle East well enough, but we need to sweep out the web a little...and you have just the broom to do that."

In the reflections on the window pane, he saw Lukin look up sharply. "You're not serious."

Pierce smiled, but didn't turn around. "I am."

Lukin sneered. "You want the Asset to...what? Kill bin Laden for you?"

Pierce waved his hand dismissively. "Bin Laden is six-foot-five and walks with a cane. How long can he hide? Sooner or later, Western intelligence will catch up with him. No, I'm more concerned with his system of lieutenants. They're the real power behind his figurehead, and the ones hardest for the conventional counter-terrorism community to find. The Asset, on the other hand..."

Lukin had fallen silent, staring at his drink. Pierce turned to face him, raising his brow in question. "Something wrong?"

When Lukin said nothing, he pressed ahead. "This 'Asset' of yours is quite the ghost story, Alex. Two dozen assassinations in the last half century. A dozen more suspected, including Jack Monroe. But, you've kept this asset or yours off the board for years now."

"The Asset," Lukin ground out. "Is not something you use on a whim. Maintenance has become increasingly difficult in the years since the KGB's end, and there have been some..._problems_ recently that have forced us to reconsider its usefulness."

Pierce nodded slowly. "I see. Why don't you show me exactly what you're talking about? Maybe together, we can find a solution to both our problems."

**WS WS WS**

What few knew was that the headquarters of Kronas Oil sat atop one of the largest HYDRA storage facilities left in Europe. Thirteen stories underground, the warehouse was the length and width of a football field, accessed only by those with the highest clearance, which in this instance, meant Lukin, Pierce, their combined security entourage, and a few technicians ordered to come along.

Pierce glanced around as they walked down the aisles. Containers of all sizes, marked in every Eastern European language, lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves. He mentally translated a few as he went by, noting they held everything from secret government documents to one-off experimental weaponry developed by the KGB and Soviet military over the decades. All sitting, gathering dust.

Pierce took pains to hide his disgust. Lukin was a disgrace. More interested in hoarding the riches collected by legendary HYDRA leaders like Karpov and Lascombe than using them to restore his ailing HYDRA cell.

Finally, in a secluded alcove, they came to a heavy steel door. Lukin stepped to the side and placed his hand on a scanning plate. A few seconds later, the device beeped, and the thick door slid open. Lukin gestured for Pierce to follow.

Through the doorway was a small complex of rooms. A small laboratory, an examination room—with a cot and an elaborate chair that had metal armatures connected to it, and a slew of electronic monitors—what appeared to be a miniature gymnasium, a weapons locker with a small shooting gallery, and an observation booth, all arranged in a circle around a central, darkened chamber.

Lukin brought the group into the central area. As they passed the threshold, lights flickered to life, revealing a large circular area of metal grating, upon which sat a large metal sarcophagus. Pierce's mouth dropped open, but he recovered quickly. HYDRA's infamous "asset," the Winter Soldier...was inside the metal tomb, only his head and face visible through a glass port.

"He's—he's frozen."

"In storage, yes," Lukin replied. "He is preserved in between assignments."

"That explains how he's been working for HYDRA for fifty years," Pierce mused.

Lukin shook his head slightly. "It is not merely to maintain his youth. It is— You came here for a demonstration, yes? Let us begin at the beginning."

Ushering Pierce into the observation booth, Lukin turned to the technicians. "Wake him."

Once inside the booth, Lukin gestured to a chair. "Please, sit. This takes a little time."

The techs activated controls on the side of the cryogenic tomb. Monitors flickered to life with readouts. Lights came on and blinked in sequences as the machines came online. Pierce watched, intrigued. Lukin settled in a chair next to him.

"I 'inherited' General Karpov's place in HYDRA, as you know. Possession of the Soldier came with that. I had him moved here years ago, when the Soviet empire collapsed. His original location was no longer secure after the KGB lost its power."

"Who is he?" Pierce asked. "Does he have a name?"

"I know he was an American soldier. We have a photograph of him from the time of the Great Patriotic War. Unfortunately, no files that describe his origin have survived. The earliest documents I have seen discuss his conversion to our cause in the late 1940s, but if he ever had a name, it has been lost to history."

Pierce nodded. _Useful_.

The techs continued working beyond the glass as Lukin narrated the process. "Core temperature must be raised first, while the Soldier is still inside the apparatus. If he were suddenly removed and thawed quickly, shock would kill him. We have refined the process over time, with computerized controls and certain chemical additives; now we can awaken him in approximately one and a half hours. A considerable improvement over the past."

Lukin certainly sounded pleased with it all. Pierce favored him with a dubious glance. "Aleksander, no human could survive a process like this. It's too traumatic. The U.S. government has tried, as has S.H.I.E.L.D.."

The Russian smiled. "I am well aware."

"Then how do you explain this?"

"The Soldier is...not a normal human being. He was altered at a cellular level. I don't understand all the details myself, but experimentation made him stronger. His body regenerates faster than what you would otherwise call 'humanly possible.' It is this regeneration that allows us to keep him stored. The process _does_ damage him, but he recovers within a few hours."

"HYDRA did this?" Pierce asked.

"Ask your new friend Dr. Zola."

Pierce nodded slowly. _Nazi experimentation at its finest_.

They sat and watched. True to Lukin's assertion, the Soldier was released from the tube an hour later. Pierce watched with interest as the man inside the tank was pulled out. Initially, he fell to his knees—mostly unconscious, it appeared. Long, dark hair obscured his face, but the trembling Soldier possessed a tall, muscular body. More than enough to explain some of the more fantastic anecdotes Pierce had heard about his exploits. The real sight, though, was the left arm. It was the first part of the Soldier's body to come to life as he was seated in a chair and hooked to medical monitors by the technicians. Metal fingers flexed slowly at first, then grasped the arm of the steel chair, steadying the man's body so he stayed upright.

"I was wondering about the arm." Pierce said quietly, watching intently.

"HYDRA's finest work, in my opinion," Lukin said. "It took years to perfect."

"Its mere existence is phenomenal," he agreed. Success in the field of prosthetics was not without cost, though, Pierce thought as he observed the scarred seam where cybernetics met flesh. He idly wondered if it was painful. If the Soldier was even aware of it.

"We have made improvements in the last decade. The hand is now composed completely of Vibranium."

"That's not easy to come by," Pierce noted. Vibranium was one of the rarest metals on Earth. S.H.I.E.L.D. had only secured small quantities of it, much of that confiscated from illegal mining operations around the globe.

"Indeed," Lukin confirmed. "The rest of the plating is only a Vibranium alloy."

After another half-hour, the technicians removed the wires from his chest and forehead and stepped back. The Soldier's right—flesh—hand was still trembling, like he was still fighting the cold. He sat staring, probably unseeing, in the chair, apparently catatonic, oblivious to the room around him. One of the guards moved in front of him and struck him with a vicious backhand, whipping the Soldier's head to the side. When there was no reaction, the guard struck him again.

Pierce frowned. "Is that necessary?"

Lukin shrugged. "Pain focuses the mind. He is not fully conscious yet." He looked over at Pierce. "You find our methods inhumane?"

The guard struck the Soldier several more times. Finally, the man blinked, sitting up straighter in the chair under his own power.

"I'm not soft, Aleksander." Pierce shot back. "I'm just curious about the efficiency of the process."

"It serves the purpose. He is strong. The pain barely phases him. It is the best way to put his mind back on track. When it...wanders, his effectiveness is compromised."

Pierce looked back at the soldier. "Is that why you keep him frozen? Because his _mind wanders_?" It seemed like such an overreaction.

"If he is used for too long, his mind strays from his mission. When that happens, he has to be wiped to remove the stray thoughts and refocus him."

"Wiped?"

Lukin stood and directed Pierce's attention to the chamber with the unusual chair and the mechanical armatures. "High voltage stimulation of the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. Don't ask me for detail, I barely understand how it works, myself. I only know from experience that it does work, and how it affects the Soldier."

_Would also keep the soldier from rebelling against his masters_, Pierce concluded. _Interesting_. He said none of that aloud, though. "So, how long can he stay in the field before needing to be wiped and retasked?"

Lukin shrugged. "A few weeks seems to be the optimum length of time. Much longer and you begin to see problems. We kept him on a mission earlier this year for three months, training some of our younger operatives. It was too long. He became erratic. Grew attached to his students. Rebellious. We had to take special measures to return him to his default programming."

_Ah, we arrive at the crux of the matter at last_, Pierce thought. "So, that's why you're hesitant to place him back in the field."

Lukin nodded.

Pierce took a deep breath, watching the Soldier being prepped in the central room. His caretakers carefully placed clothes on him, feeding him...some gray mush from a bowl. The Soldier ate slowly, deliberately, clearly not enjoying it, but obedient. "Well, seems to me, Aleksander, that the answer is just to limit his time on mission. He seems functional right now—"

"You cannot take him."

"Excuse me?" Pierce turned. Lukin was watching him with a resigned expression.

"That is why you are here, is it not, Comrade Pierce? To take the Asset back to America with you?"

Pierce smiled faintly. "I need him, Aleksander. We can adjust the mission parameters to make sure he doesn't relapse. We'll just have to be cautious, is all."

"He is one of HYDRA's most valuable assets. He should be preserved for only the most important miss—"

"I need him _now_, Aleksander. All the missions are important. Now, more than ever."

"You cannot have him."

Pierce huffed a laugh. "Is that so?"

Lukin's back stiffened. "I will not allow you to waste the Winter Soldier as your errand boy. If necessary, I will speak to the others—"

"I've _already_ spoken to the others," Pierce interrupted. "They agree with me." Pierce rose from the chair. "You've let time pass you by, Aleksander. Your cell is in ruins. HYDRA's influence over key areas of the Russian sector has slipped to pre-1940s levels."

Lukin's mouth tightened into a thin line, but he didn't argue the point. Pierce pressed on. "The twenty-first century is HYDRA's time. No one can be allowed to hold us back. We're going to make great strides in the coming years, with or without _you_."

"How will you control Kronas Oil and its resources without me?" Lukin challenged weakly.

Pierce smirked. "Your young protégé, upstairs? Vladimir? He's proven very supportive of our plans. He'll make an excellent CEO. I'm sorry, Aleksander, I truly am."

He turned, looking to the head of his security detail, who was watching him near the glass. Pierce nodded once. Gunfire erupted outside the observation booth. Lukin flinched, moving to see what was happening. When he turned back, Pierce had drawn a .22 from his coat pocket. Without another word, he put two rounds into Lukin's stomach.

"Thanks for the nickel tour, Alex."

Checking out the window to be sure, Pierce stepped out of the booth, confident that his men had finished their assignment. All of Lukin's guards were lying on the grated floor, motionless. The four techs were huddled near the cryo equipment, watching. Pierce stepped over to face them. "You've been reassigned. I want you all in Washington by the end of the week. My men will make sure everything you need is packed and transported. Understood?"

The techs stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. Pierce nodded once. "Hail HYDRA."

They echoed the oath back to him.

The techs weren't the only ones watching him, though. Pierce turned to see the Soldier sitting silently, watching his every move. He moved slowly over in front of the seated assassin. Finding a stool by the medical monitors, Pierce pulled it over and sat down, meeting the man's icy blue—and very alert—eyes.

"Why didn't you protect them?" Pierce asked, genuinely curious.

The young soldier's brow furrowed for a moment. "Я не приказали сделать это."

Pierce grinned. "I'm sorry, son. Do you speak English?"

The frowned on the Soldier's face deepened. His eyes swept back and forth for a moment, as though searching for the correct answer. "Y-yes."

Pierce nodded approvingly. The frown receded somewhat. Pierce waited patiently, arching an eyebrow after a moment. The Soldier blinked, glancing around the room at the dead Russian guards. "I was not ordered to do so."

Nodding, Pierce leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And do you always follow orders so precisely?"

"Yes."

"Whose orders?"

"HYDRA's."

Pierce nodded. _Programmed response. Good_. "From this moment forward, I _am_ HYDRA, Soldier. You will take your orders from me. Is that understood?"

The clear blue eyes didn't blink. "Yes, sir."

Pierce smiled at him. "These men...weren't very kind to you, were they, son?"

The Soldier frowned again, glancing from the dead men to Pierce. It was clear he was trying to remember if he knew the answer to the question, or needed to find one. "I—I don't know. I...don't think so."

"They hurt you?"

He got a tentative nod from the Soldier, as though he was afraid to voice the thought.

With a nod, Pierce slowly reached out and placed his hand on the Soldier's still-cold metal shoulder. "That's going to change. You've done more for HYDRA's cause than these men ever have. You've shaped the last century. That deserves respect. I promise you, I will only hurt you if it's necessary."

That got another nod, more certain than the first.

"You and I are going to change the world, soldier." Pierce said. "When we're done, I will personally make sure you are rewarded for your excellent service."

The Soldier nodded slowly, processing the words. "Yes, sir."

Pierce smiled. He pointed at the small training areas behind him. "Good. Now, we have a few hours. I want you to show me what you're capable of."

**WS WS WS WS WS WS**

_September 2009_

_Steppes Overlooking the Port of Odessa _

_Ukraine_

"You know Fury's going to be pissed at you for being out of the hospital this soon."

Natasha glanced over at Barton, arching her eyebrow imperiously. "And who's going to tell him?"

"You know I won't, Nat. Like it matters. He always knows." Clint shot back.

Her reply was to walk away, limping slightly. She never was one to admit to being hurt. The truth was, she'd come perilously close to being dead, just a few hundred yards from where they now stood. The fact that she was walking around so soon at all was a testament more to her stubbornness than to her resiliency.

That was the part his brain kept circling back to, and for that, Clint would not hesitate to place an arrow in this "Winter Soldier's" skull—if he ever crossed paths with him.

Natasha paced the area carefully, looking for clues, prints, anything. Clint just watched. He knew that the S.H.I.E.L.D. rescue team would have stamped out anything that might have been there when they arrived to retrieve her two weeks earlier. Her behavior was unusual. She wasn't one to obsess over past events, good or bad. He was unsure why she had wanted to come back here so desperately. It was becoming obvious that it wasn't just to investigate the scene of the attack.

Clint also knew that pressing her on the matter was a good way to make her stop talking completely.

After several more minutes of fruitless searching, Natasha stopped and tilted her head back to look at the sky. It was the closest anyone got to seeing her admit defeat. Clint walked past her silently. Once he reached the edge, he sat and dangled his feet off the ledge of the earthen terrace. From there, he could see the entire port city below them. _My kind of vantage point_.

A few minutes ticked by in silence, until Natasha moved into his peripheral vision, accepting the unspoken invitation and dropping gracefully to the ground at his side. She said nothing, of course.

"So," Clint began softly. "Who is it?"

Natasha looked at him for a long moment. He kept his eyes on the bustling waterfront in the distance. She would talk when she was ready; Clint didn't need to push any more than he already had. After a moment, Natasha's eyes settled on the waterfront, following his gaze.

"I know the assassin. Well," She shrugged. "I _knew_ him, anyway."

Clint narrowed his eyes. "He just shot you, so I'm guessing it didn't end well."

Natasha frowned at him. "No...no, it wasn't— It was a long time ago. Before...well, _before_."

He didn't speak. Natasha rarely spoke of the Red Room, or her former masters. He would let her move at her own pace.

"He trained me. I already knew how to fight, but he made me better. He was fast...impressive in ways none of the other instructors could hope to be. Some of the others thought he was some kind of machine. The arm only made the rumor stronger. We worked together for a few months. After a while, we..."

Clint raised an eyebrow, but studiously watched the ships moving in the harbor.

"He would sneak into my room at night." Natasha smiled sadly. "I don't even know his name. I don't know if he even had one."

"And yet, two weeks ago, he shot you." Clint reminded her gently. "What did you leave out of the report?"

She had omitted something. Clint knew it. Phil. Fury. Hill. Everyone knew it.

Natasha's mouth twisted. "I tried to— I was covering the engineer. When the soldier came close, I tried to talk to him. But, he didn't remember me."

Clint hated the look in her eyes. He hated the people that put it there. "You're hard to forget."

She leveled a grim look at him. "They made him forget."

He grimaced. He'd heard that the Red Room had ways of erasing memories, taking their operatives minds and playing, building new personalities from the inside out. He knew Natasha had first hand experience. "I'm sorry."

Natasha shook her head once, firmly. "I thought I could find him, maybe if I came back soon enough there would be a trail. I should have known better. He's a ghost. He taught _me_ to be a ghost. There was never anything here to find."

"Doesn't hurt to look around. No one's perfect."

The look he got told him exactly what she thought of that opinion.

Before he could reply, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, then to Nat, before thumbing the "Accept" button. "Hi, Phil!"

"_A quinjet will be landing at Odessa International in three hours. Be on it. You're briefing packet will be waiting on board_."

Clint looked at Natasha. "Uh oh. Coulson's using his handler voice."

"_You know I can hear you, right?_"

"Just taking a little sight-seeing tour while Nat recovers, boss."

"_And I look forward to hearing all about it. But, right now, I need you both in Kolkata. Check in when you're airborne_."

Coulson disconnected abruptly. Natasha sighed minutely. "Think it's about the Big Guy?"

Clint shrugged. "Maybe."

They sat in silence for a while longer. Clint glanced over. "We have a few hours. Never hurts to double check. I can sniff out a trail pretty good..."

Natasha's rolled eyes were as close to a "thank you" as he would get.

**WS WS WS WS WS WS**

_Washington, D.C._

_April 6, 2014_

The Winter Soldier's screams echoed off the vault walls as Pierce and Rumlow strode from the room. It was unfortunate that they needed to wipe his memory on the eve of the Insight launch, but over the years the scientists had gotten the process down to an art form. Pierce was confident the Soldier would be back in fighting form when he was needed.

With his security entourage in tow, Pierce made his way to the underground parking deck and the waiting armored SUV. He activated his phone and toggled the remote access to the computer terminal in his office. Insight's launch was just about twelve hours away, and much remained to be done.

News of Nick Fury's death was rippling through the lower echelons of S.H.I.E.L.D., despite the news blackout Pierce had imposed the day before. Bad news travelled faster than even press leaks, after all. It wasn't all that surprising.

What was distressing was the number of late game surprises that had begun to pop up in the last thirty-six hours. Nick's unfortunate discovery of the algorithm, Steve Rogers' involvement, Romanoff's apparent defection to Rogers' aid... Before coming over to the vault, Pierce had received word that Commander Hill hadn't been seen since early that morning in Operations. Hill was Fury's second, and widely believed to be his chosen successor. The fact that she hadn't yet come forward in the aftermath of his assassination was troubling. If she'd chosen Rogers as well...

Too many complications. Pierce had gone to great pains to keep Insight's true purpose—indeed the project's very existence—secret. Most everyone involved, directly or indirectly, was on staff at the Triskelion or the construction bays beneath the Potomac. Ninety percent of the Level 9 and 10 agents were already HYDRA. The majority of the Level 8s, along with varying numbers of the lower ranks, had been converted to the cause. Most of those that weren't had been relegated to harmless positions throughout the organization.

Two notable exceptions were Victoria Hand, whose command position at the Hub made her largely untouchable, and Phil Coulson, whose Mobile Command Unit was something of a loose cannon, thanks to Fury's shuffling of assignments after New York.

Coulson could be neutralized easily enough once Insight was online. Hand was a different story. The Hub was a secure command station. The Helicarriers wouldn't be able to target anyone inside without completely reducing the base to rubble, and nothing short of an armed incursion would breach it if Hand managed to lock it down in time.

Pierce needed another option. He'd met Victoria, and she was as ruthless as Fury and Hill. She needed to be neutralized before Insight launched, or she might rally S.H.I.E.L.D. at the last moment. He scanned through the launch schedule while he pondered the situation. _There_.

With the last Insight satellite in orbit, the network had to be synchronized. An agency-wide communications whiteout was scheduled for midnight, to allow the computers and communications arrays to reboot and synch with the new programs.

It was perfect. No one outside the Triskelion knew the interruption was coming. Agency outposts worldwide would be temporarily blinded and isolated. HYDRA could seize control of every outpost simultaneously. Afterward, any stragglers would be easy pickings for the Helicarriers.

It would be a bloodbath, but the New World Order was always going to require sacrifice. Zola showed him that years ago.

Climbing into the back of his SUV, Pierce entered commands into his phone, setting up a sub-channel broadcast to all HYDRA agents that would coincide with the whiteout. It would trigger automatically. His office computer connected with the Triskelion's mainframe and began the preparations.

_Time of transmission?_

He set the time for two minutes to midnight, just ahead of the whiteout so that any S.H.I.E.L.D. loyalist who intercepted and decrypted the transmission wouldn't have time to do anything about it.

_ Message contents?_

Pierce paused. It needed to be something simplistic, so that it would transmit quickly, but clear enough that his agents would understand what was happening. He glanced up as the vehicle exited the garage onto street level. He noticed Rumlow, who was seated across from him, staring back toward the bank with a troubled expression.

"Something wrong, Agent Rumlow?"

The other man flinched slightly, obviously unhappy with being noticed. "No, sir."

Pierce glanced back at the bank, then back at his lieutenant when the pieces clicked into place. "You don't like watching him get wiped. Never have."

Rumlow grimaced, but didn't try to play games denying it. "No, sir. It's like kicking a dog that's already in a cage. It's not right."

Pierce studied him for a moment, then nodded. Rumlow was an honorable man. That was why S.H.I.E.L.D. had recruited him out of the Navy SEALS in the first place. It made sense that the whole idea of the Asset wouldn't sit well with him. He pointed at the sidearm strapped to Rumlow's leg. "Do you ever clean your gun?"

"All the time," Rumlow answered, frowning in confusion.

"Same thing. After a long mission, the Soldier has to be repaired. He gets confused. It's just _maintenance_. Nothing more, nothing less. Once the Helicarriers are in the air, we won't need his services anymore. He'll never need to endure that pain again."

After a moment, Rumlow nodded. "I understand, sir."

Pierce favored him with a smile. "You're a good soldier, Brock. HYDRA's lucky to have you."

"Thank you, sir."

"I want S.T.R.I.K.E. to secure the Triskelion tomorrow before the launch. If Rogers turns up again, we need to be in position. And spare a few men for the Council as well." Pierce ordered.

"We'll be ready." Rumlow replied.

Pierce looked out the window at the passing sidewalk. Night had fallen, and streetlights were creating patterns of light and dark along the concrete paths of the city. He smiled again, finally thinking of an way to word his message. He looked down and typed in the words.

_ Out of the shadows, into the light. Hail HYDRA._

**WS WS WS WS WS WS**

_Present Day_

_10 Months After the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D._

_Southwestern Crimea, 50 km South of Balaklava_

James surveyed the target from a distance, hugging the tree line along the coastal road. The road led past a seaside villa jutting out from rocky cliffs, overlooking the Black Sea. His objective was inside.

The documents Hiram had unlocked on the hard drive had listed many of the HYDRA bases and camps where the Winter Soldier had been kept and experimented upon. Most were abandoned. A rudimentary internet search had revealed that many of the bases listed had long since been overrun during the rebuilding of postwar Europe. As HYDRA reeled from the death of Schmidt and struggled to attach itself to the fledgling S.H.I.E.L.D., they'd fallen back deeper into Russia and South America. In their wake dozens of bases had fallen into Western hands, or been lost to time, buried deep in forests and mountain ranges.

His leads were drying up. James had put a huge dent in Pierce's North American network of operations—he wasn't naive enough to think he'd completely destroyed it, or even _found_ all of it. But, the remaining HYDRA cells in the U.S. were hiding themselves well, and James had reached a point where he needed to either stop hunting them, or join up with Steve and make use of his friend's greater resources to locate the enemy.

That was out of the question. He remained firm in his belief that Steve needed to be kept away from James' vendetta. He wouldn't willingly drag Steve down with him. Even though, the recent events in Ghudaza had proved that Steve was still more than capable of getting himself into serious trouble.

Part of James—a strong part—wanted to go back. Find Steve, make sure he was all right after his ordeal. The Bucky Barnes in him wanted to go back. Screamed for it in his sleep. But, James mercilessly suppressed that selfish urge. Going back to Steve placed Steve in danger.

The dilapidated home sprawling before him had belonged to one of the biggest HYDRA kingpins of the 1990s. It appeared unchanged from the photos James had found, and seemed, on the surface at least, to be a good place to search for intelligence. He'd been observing the villa for two days, and noted a steady flow of traffic during daylight hours. Far more than one would expect, given that the location was supposedly abandoned and its former owner supposedly long dead.

Someone or something was still operating from there.

On a deeper—and less logical level—James had felt a _pull_ when he'd read about this place. Something in his mind latched on to it. Had he been here? Was it one of the places he'd been stored? James couldn't remember. But it _felt_ right.

If he was wrong, then it was quite possible he was heading for his doom. He had little idea what to expect inside. HYDRA was almost certainly still using the location, given the unusual traffic. Still, he couldn't steer himself away from the course.

James waited until nightfall, then stealthily moved in from the direction of the trees, using shadows to mask his approach. There were no guards outside, so getting past the gated entrance was easy.

A few minutes after midnight, James entered the former home of Aleksander Lukin.

END

_A/N: I wanted to give a little backstory to Pierce and how he got Bucky to begin with, and a little shout out to one of the best moments of "Agents of Shield" last season, when HYDRA sprang onto the scene. _

_"_Я не приказали сделать это." Is as close as Google could get to translating "I was not ordered to do so."

_Obviously, Lukin didn't die here, as the end of "168 Hours" showed._

_Given her birth year of 1984, Natasha would have been 18 in 2002. Keeping everything nice and legal... _

_Now, FINALLY, we can get into Part 2 of "Chasing Ghosts." :)_


End file.
